


Hello, Sherlock

by loveisasacrifice



Series: Goodbye, Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, BAMF John, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I am horrible at doing the tags, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveisasacrifice/pseuds/loveisasacrifice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Goodbye, Sherlock.</p><p>Sherlock receives covert signs that John is alive, less than a week after John's fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I found a person to beta my works, (thanks AOZ I appreciate it) so I will be updating my works once she finishes! Thanks! Please also note that none of these characters belong to me, full credit to BBC and the show directors/writers. As I do not feel like writing the previous sentence on every single work I do, just note that the whole non-belonging to me thingy applies to all of my works that involve Sherlock and John and etc.

   Sherlock can't breathe. This horrible feeling is leaving him utterly bewildered, frustrated, angry, sad, all the emotions he had tried to hide for so long. He can't discern the physical cause of this choking feeling, the imaginary steel band slowly crushing his ribs and lungs and heart. Especially his heart. Even though Sherlock knows it is anatomically impossible, he can't help but feel as if his stomach is rising into his throat and his heart is slowly ripping into shreds of John-shaped pieces. He stares, unmoving, unblinking, as if he is the dead one, at the blood stain upon the pavement beneath St.Bart's. John's blood. Sherlock can't get the image of John's back turning on him. John, who gave himself up for Sherlock. John's cream jumper, which he wore as he stepped off of the roof of St.Bart's.

   Sherlock knows deep within, that he is still denying the fact that John Watson is dead. _It's impossible_ , every cell in his body screams. He shouldn't be dead. He can't be. Sherlock knows, subconsciously, that he is lying to himself. But then again, didn't he always? He lied to everyone and himself. He lied about the drugs. He lied about the fact that he has feelings, and they are impossibly stronger when they are focused towards John. _Were_ , his brain whispered. _Were focused towards John_. He grabs his head, digging his fingers into the dark curls, trying to make deductions. Trying to stop the deductions. Sherlock isn't sure of what he wants _._ He knows that there are facts that don't add up, there are factors he hasn't considered, but he is also afraid. What if he looks too close, and eliminates the possibility that John is alive? What if he sees what he can't see clearly now, and sees that John is dead and won't ever come back?

   Sherlock almost screams at the thought of John never coming back. Who is going to put up with his rambling deductions? Who is going to yell at him about his experiments, about the ever missing milk? Who will mend his wounds, keep him from rushing into dangerous situations? Sherlock can't see his future now. He used to be able to almost predict what would happen to him, but very loosely. He would deduce when John would disappear from the flat with another woman, when Lestrade would call him in, when Mycroft would stick his big nose into Sherlock's business. Now, his future is a gray blur of syringes and dark alleyways and drunk nights and nicotine patches littering the floor of seedy motel rooms and eventually, a gun to his head. Or maybe an overdose. He begins contemplating the different ways he would end up dying.

   "Hey, can you please-" The voice cuts off abruptly upon seeing his face. Sherlock doesn't look up, but he can tell that the woman is petite, shorter than John, with blond hair and a stable job as a doctor. Sherlock can't breathe, as he realizes how much she reminds him of John. Sherlock suddenly looks up, surprising her. "I'm... I'm sorry," the woman stutters, looking into his eyes. Instead of finding fear, pity, and apology in her eyes, he finds a strange determination. He is struck by how her eyes are just a shade off from John's, and how her fragrance smells almost just like his, and how everything about her seems to be mocking him. "I read John's blog. I just wanted to say that I will always believe in John," she said, her eyes suddenly hard and blocked off from his deducing. "I will always believe that he is alive in our hearts, and every little thing should remind you that he is alive and with us in the most joyful way possible." Her eyes soften, and she leans in and whispers in Sherlock's frozen ear.

   "Believe. You know that's what he does." And the strange woman, with her John triggers and her strange messages, walks away and melts into the crowd. He immediately analyzes her grammar tenses, her gestures, her eyes. Sherlock knows, he can feel it, that this woman knows something about John he doesn't. And that cannot happen. No one is allowed to know more about John than Sherlock himself. Sherlock can't breathe, he can't think, he can't do anything but sprint back to 221B. He knocks through throngs of people, not apologizing to the woman he knocks down and ignoring the stares and whispers. He doesn't stop until he is inside 221B, until he is in John's room, until he is at John's laptop. He opens it, choking back a cry as he realizes John took off his password from his account. He remembers how he used to yell at John about his easily deduced passwords, always deleting the hurt expression on John's face. Sherlock feels a single tear slide down his cheek as he opens the web browser.

   He clicks on his bookmarks, staring at the single bookmark he made. John's blog. Sherlock knew the URL by heart, and could tell anyone about any blog post, but sometimes he wanted to see John's writing faster. As fast as possible. Sherlock stared at the small star next to the bookmark. With shaking hands, he clicked on it. And his heart stopped.

    _This may be my last blog post. Ever. So if this is, I need to clear some things up for everyone._   

  _I know that most people think of Sherlock as how he describes himself. I know that many people do believe that Sherlock is a high-functioning sociopath, that he is inhuman, that he is incapable of having feelings. But let me tell you right now: that is so untrue that I might just need to come back from the dead to shake some sense into you. He has told me that he is not a hero. In the beginning, I sometimes thought he wasn't human. But let me tell you this: he is the best man and human being I've ever known, and he was never a lie. I was always so alone throughout life, and Sherlock changed all of that. He saved me. He gave me time I didn't deserve, brought smiles to my face when I felt like dying._

_I owe you so much Sherlock. I know this might seem rash, stupid, but it has been too long. I was always just a sideshow. I was just "the blogger". No one knew my name. No one cared. Because you were there. And even if I owe you the time I spent happy, I also owe you the times I spent mourning my lot in life. But now, I know what to do. I want you to know that I love you, and always will, even when I am gone. I hope that comforts you in some way, even if I am gone and you don't return the sentiment. I know this may seem strange, saying that you have feelings but at the same time offing myself. But there is an extent to human feelings. And even if you can love, you can never love me. Because I am not brilliant enough for you. Or special enough. Or insane enough._

_Look, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Believe that I am always alive in your heart, and every little thing should remind you that I am alive and with you in the most joyful way possible. Believe in me. You know that is what I do. I do love you, Sherlock. I truly do. And whatever pain I cause you, I will suffer through every moment of being apart from you wherever I am. I loved you. I love you. I always will love you. Think of this as my note. Because that's what people do, right? Leave a note?_

_-Dr.John Watson, Sherlock Holmes's blogger_

Sherlock can't breathe. This metal band, it's back, and this time it feels as if the air in his lungs is also trying to suffocate him. Sherlock now knows the true range of human emotions, and they all hit him at once. Drowning in guilt at his part in John's death. Choking upon despair at losing John. So much grief that he feels an unfamiliar burning behind his eyes. Confusion at the wetness running down his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt, in little drops onto his lap, splashing like blood upon John's laptop. And at the same time, a buoy of hope. A light, so tiny that it is almost impossible, but there. And Sherlock can't quench the hope that the woman was a sign, a sign that John is somehow still alive and Sherlock won't die from his own hand and that everything will be normal again.

   And Sherlock realizes that if John is still alive, Sherlock has some things to say to him. Sherlock breathes in, then out, effectively stopping the flow of tears. With everything is his mind, he concentrated upon the image of John that he had imprinted in his head.

_John, I will never give up on the hope that you are alive. If you can hear me, know that I will always believe. And that I will always hope, even if I feel as if sentiment is crushing me. And if you can hear me, know that I love you too. I miss you John. If you can do me a favor, make a miracle happen. Stop this John. Stop being dead._

And as Sherlock finished, he lay back, leaning his head against the back of the couch, and let a solitary tear slip down his still-wet cheeks before he fell into a black, dreamless sleep.

 

 

   John watches the woman, the blond woman who looks just like him but female, this woman who is kind enough to help him save Sherlock from Sherlock. Because John knows that Sherlock would've turned to drugs and adrenaline and danger to keep himself distracted. He would've eventually deteriorated into something less than Sherlock, into something not worth saving. Mary, the woman, walks up the 4 stairs to her flat. 90 degree turn. 3 steps to the door. 5 inches to the keyhole. John watches all this from inside her flat, sitting on her leather armchair. She walks in and jumps, a hand covering her mouth while immediately shutting the door. John sighs in relief. At least she isn't as slow and easily scared as the rest of the population.

   "You are here because...?" Mary asks as she starts hanging up her things and locking the door. John looks at her, then decides on his next move. Maybe it is a bit obvious, but he might as well try. "You have dark-haired friends? With curly hair?" John asks. Mary nods slowly, her eyes unreadable. "Any of them support me or Sherlock and won't tell that I'm alive?" Mary seems to think a bit longer, then nods. "Kira. She is tall, curly dark hair, with green-blue eyes." John winces as an image of Sherlock comes to mind. John shakes the thought away, then looks at Mary. "Tell her to come over right now, as an emergency. I will do the rest." Mary nods once more, her face carefully blank.

   As Mary goes into the kitchen to call Kira, John takes out his disposable phone and dials Mycroft's number. He picks up on the first ring.

   "Mycroft, it's me. We need to talk." John hears nothing but a sigh on the other side of the line. 

   "Make it worth my time, John."

 

   Sherlock awakes suddenly, the ringing of his phone shrill and unwelcome within the dark confines of 221B. Of course, it didn't stop ringing. Sherlock groanes, grabbing the phone from the table and growling as the light hit his eyes. Mycroft. Of course. Sherlock sighs and answers, staring outside at the darkness of the London night.

   "Yes, Mycroft?" Sherlock answers irritably. 

   "I have a car for you outside. Get in it if you want to hear about my latest case." Sherlock sits up, considers it. He is unsure if he wants to go, but he also knows he doesn't want to stay in the flat much longer. Sherlock can almost feel Mycroft's smirk. The call ends, and Sherlock is left with a choice. He decides to go hear about the case, and he quickly changes and walks down the steps. As he readies himself to open the door, he hears a knock.  _Woman, left-handed, short, inebriated, holding someone up._  The deduction flashes through his head, and he quickly opens the door. And his heart nearly stops again.

   There is the woman again. The woman who looks like John, with her blond hair and beautiful blue eyes and small stature. Sherlock notices all this, notices the dilation of her pupils, her inebriation. He then notices the woman next to Female John. He can't believe his eyes. She is as tall as Sherlock, with long hair that is midnight condensed into curls, falling down her back. Half-lidded eyes, that are green and gray and blue and undefinable. It is what he would look like if he were female. And he watches as the Female John snogs Female Sherlock in front of him, freezing his muscles. Sherlock suddenly has an image of John and Sherlock standing on the doorstep of 221B, snogging. And his heart breaks as he realizes he may never have the chance to.

   The Female John pulls back, and Sherlock realizes she is not truly drunk. It was fake. Female John looks at him, eyes unreadable, and smiles. "You may yet get your chance," she whispers softly. Sherlock stands very still, while inside of him, things are breaking and reforming and locking themselves away and bursting out of hidden rooms within his Mind Palace. The woman smiles at his strained poker face, and nods. "Mary Morstan," she whispers. Then she and the Female Sherlock walk away, their drunkness suddenly returning.  _Good actors,_ Sherlock thought. His mind was still reeling as he walked back inside 221B and climbed the stairs to John's room, not noticing that there was never a car waiting outside.


	2. So Close yet So Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John and doesn't realize it's him until it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block for like the past... forever.  
> Might need a beta'er (is that how you spell it?)  
> Email me at kiramira331997@gmail.com if you would like to help.  
> Thanks for reading, suggestions welcomed!

   There was a time when Sherlock would've dismissed sixth sense as unreliable. He would've twisted his lips disdainfully and haughtily and dissect whoever mentioned that his skills were just incredible sixth sense. But of course, John had never said that. John just smiled and whispered _Brilliant!_ under his breath at every turn that Sherlock's mind made. And Sherlock was pleased that John did not doubt him, or think he was an impostor.

   So Sherlock didn't have an explanation for the prickling that stabbed at his skin, the feeling that familiar blue eyes are staring at him with unspoken and unreadable words etched into the unblinking pupil. Sherlock didn't know what to do when his every molecule screamed _Turn around you git!_ at him whenever he turned a corner or hailed a cab. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, but in a good way. A way that would explain why Lestrade wouldn't let him into the morgue, but forced him to watch through the glass as John's toe was labeled and his crushed body was bagged. Sherlock knew that Lestrade's reasons were good. His intentions were good. Sherlock himself knew that he would've flown into a drug-filled flurry of sneers and lashing words if he had to identify the crushed skull with bloody blond hair inside the room. Yes, Lestrade's intentions were good.

   But the road to hell was paved with good intentions.

 

   John wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the dye out of his hair and change his clothes and take out his contacts and go up to the git and shake him. John had been tailing Sherlock for a week now, and the infernal git wouldn't turn around. John knew the telltale tightening of Sherlock's shoulders, the way his back straightened minisculy and his stride shortened by a few centimeters. Sherlock only did that when he knew something was wrong. Yet he wouldn't turn around. John was tired of walking invisibly behind the head of dark curls and impossible intelligence.

   On the 9th day of following Sherlock, John "accidentally" crashed into the couple behind Sherlock, spilling iced coffee all over Sherlock's dark blue button-up and gray scarf. The man glared at John, apologized profusely to a seething and hissing Sherlock, and dragged his wide-eyed vapid girlfriend behind him. Sherlock glared at John's fake cheekbones and concealed wrinkles and huffed, pulling at the freezing wet fabric that was clinging to his slender frame. "Sorry, man, wasn't watching where I was going." John's American accent was impeccable, from the times he had spent with some American troops. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, his eyes flickering with annoyance and suspicion. "Here, let me go buy you a new shirt and scarf." Sherlock opened his mouth to refuse, but John pulled on his arm anyway. "You're that famous Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? Sorry about John, I'm going to miss him."

   Sherlock's eyes blazed, and he shook off John's hand. "You know nothing about him, and do not presume that you do." John wanted to giggle like a little schoolboy at the irony, but refrained with great force of will. "No, that's where you're wrong. I know a lot about him, actually." Sherlock whirled around and his head snapped up and fixed John with a stare that could rival an angry statue. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder roughly, right thankfully, and pulled him into a cab that seemed to be waiting in the perfect place. It had, actually, it was one of Mycroft's. John ignored the angry protests of the businessmen about to get in, and Sherlock did too. "221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie.

   Sherlock seemed slightly less manic in the cab, and steepled his hands while he stared thoughtfully at John. John wanted to sob at the familiar motion, but he refrained from it and just stared back. Sherlock seemed slightly peeved that his stare didn't intimidate John, but no one but someone familiar with him would've noticed. John smiled inwardly, and waited.

 

   Sherlock felt like his chest was about to explode with anger and hope and many other emotions he had promised that he would get rid of. He tried to look calm, but his heart was thumping so loud it felt like it was bending his ribs the wrong way. After a few breaths, Sherlock spoke. "Who are you, and how do you know John?" The strange man with his wide face and hazel-green eyes and brown hair smiled with all teeth. "Why don't you tell me?" Sherlock nodded approval inwardly, while he scoured the man's appearances.

   He had a familiar military stance, similar to John when he- stop. Delete. Restart. He had a military stance, but his haircut was too long to have been in the military recently. His eyes were steady, and he seemed to know that Sherlock would find his secrets. So he knows about Sherlock, and knows more than just an ordinary civilian. He shifted slightly when Sherlock said the address, and also when Sherlock put his fingers together. So he was slightly familiar with Sherlock's motions. Soon, Sherlock's brain whirled to a stop. He was the man following Sherlock, the one that sent prickles down his spine.

 

   John smiled at Sherlock's abrupt realization that he had been following him. John began talking, and made sure his voice was deeper and rumbled slightly. "John and I served together in Afghanistan. He saved me from a bullet to the shoulder. He was a good man, and I heard that he died the day I moved to London." John was confident that Sherlock hadn't seen his scar before, so John pulled down his t-shirt slightly to reveal the puckered scar on his shoulder. He did not expect Sherlock to breathe out, "John," and reach for the scar. With a startled cry, John opened the door and dashed out of the cab. He had to move fast to dodge a honking car, but he disappeared into a coffee shop and ran to the bathroom to change. When he came out, he nearly crashed into a frantic looking Sherlock. Sherlock growled, pushed him out of the way, and ran back outside.

   John felt a tear go down his face as he heard Sherlock's broken cry of "John!" through the closing door. John left before he could lose his resolve, and go crawling back to Sherlock.


End file.
